


Doctor Who: A Month of Sundaes

by mysticmartin



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005), Iris Wildthyme (Big Finish Audio), Orlando - Virginia Woolf, Torchwood
Genre: Comedy, Epic, Experimental Style, F/M, Fluff, Other, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-10 16:12:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 13,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3296609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysticmartin/pseuds/mysticmartin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One month. One ice cream parlour. Thirteen Doctors. An awful lot of ice cream to be eaten.<br/>A 28-chapter fanfic about all the doctors and their various visits to their favourite ice cream parlour. Brief crossovers with Torchwood, Virginia Woolf's 'Orlando' mythos, and the real world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1 February

**Author's Note:**

> So, I wrote this as a bit of an experiment, basically allowing me to play with every Doctor and their various companions, and the various different things they all allow you to do with the same basic set-up: a visit to an ice cream parlour. I had a lot of fun with this one, and I hope you do too. If you enjoyed it, or even if you didn't, please leave a comment and let me know what you thought. Thank you.

It was commonly known that Courtney’s Café and Ice Cream Parlour served the best ice cream in the universe. It was located in a small, out-of-the-way Welsh town, a little shop on a quaint high street, opposite a green, tree-lined common, and it was for this reason that the excellence of the ice cream was not generally acknowledged outside the town. Of course, in February, it had relatively few customers- the trickle of tourists being absent and the below-freezing weather conditions having a curiously deleterious effect on the townspeople’s desire for ice cream. It was partly for this reason that the only customer in the shop was a tall, skinny man, apparently in his late thirties, with untidy brown hair, sitting at one of the cramped yet homely tables, and tearing his attention away from his strawberry cone every few seconds to look at a strange handheld machine, apparently assembled from twine and bits of old circuit board. He was just licking melted ice cream off his fingertips, when the machine started buzzing, providing him with another clue as to why he was alone in the shop.

“Ah,” he said, looking at it with eyes wide enough to cause serious worry in an optician, had there been one present. “Buzzing. That is…not good. I mean, you should be going ping, so buzzing is just a whole new level of not-goodness. Unless…” A glimmer of hope flashed in his eyes, and he glanced out of the window. His eyes fell back to his device, more worried than ever. “OK, so no chickens in the area. That is not good. That is very not good.” He ran a hand through his hair, and glanced out of the window again. Then back at his machine. Then back at the window. He saw the ice-covered trees, the pavement coated in white, the traffic-free road. He also noticed again that he really was completely alone in the shop, and indeed had not seen anybody else during his time in the small town. He then did some quick mental calculations about British weather patterns in this particular time period. His eyes, somehow, widened even further. In a simultaneously awed and terrified voice, he murmured- “That’s not snow…”

He leapt to his feet, seized the long brown coat he had thrown over his chair, and pelted for the doorway.

“Allons-y!”


	2. 2 February

There were quite a few people on the high street that Saturday morning, and the Doctor expertly wove his way through them, dodging left and right with a weird, awkward grace, leaving Craig and Sophie struggling to keep up. They weren’t used to dealing with crowds, even in a town as small as this. The Doctor stopped outside the ice cream parlour, and turned around with an ecstatic grin, only to see the two of them several metres behind, attempting to negotiate their way around two push-chairs and a rather large dog. “Oh come on, you two!” he called. “Best ice cream in the universe, remember?” Sophie and Craig looked at each other, rolled their eyes, and giggled slightly. They had both rolled their eyes at the same time, and Sophie still got a weird sensation in her stomach when that happened, like she had bungee-jumped while standing still. 

The Doctor had done what they had never expected. He had come back. They had just moved into their new place, Sophie having finally gotten that job at WWF. Craig had joked that Sophie was actually working for the World Wrestling Federation, until Sophie had calmly pointed out that a) she could probably beat him in a fight, and b) most of the animals she came across in her job were better-behaved than him. They had been halfway through unpacking when the doorbell rang. Sophie had gone downstairs to answer, half of her mind still on the job in hand, chiefly the box containing her photo albums (old-fashioned, but hey, a disposable camera is a lot less of a liability than a £300 smartphone when dealing with hyperactive monkeys). “Where are you putting that box?” she called up to Craig, as she opened the door. As she turned her head back to the person in the doorway- rude, to ignore people like that, but it had been a long day of sorting out furniture- she heard a voice, an impossible voice, saying “Well, I tried to park it on your driveway, but some angry men carrying a sofa asked me to move it.”And there he was. The Doctor. He was dressed differently- his new, purple suit somehow managed to be even worse than his last one, but his bow tie was still there, as was that mad glint in his eye. “Hello Sophie,” he had said. “Just thought I’d pop round for a chat. Are you busy?” 

Sophie had been a little freaked out, but the Doctor had simply hugged her as before, and then turned to Craig. “And hello, Craig!” he had exclaimed, hugging him too. “How are the monkeys?” he had asked Sophie.

“F-fine thanks,” she had stuttered.

“Brilliant,” he said. “Didn’t really get to see you properly last time, thought I’d drop in and see how you were doing.”

Sophie and Craig had been confused. “What do you mean, last time?” Craig had asked.

“Last time…” The Doctor trailed off, then hit his forehead with his palm. “Sorry, time travel, wrong order. Anyway,” he had put an arm round both their shoulders. “Who fancies an ice cream?”

Sophie and Craig finally caught up with the Doctor, Craig panting slightly. Craig had briefly taken up running, until Sophie had, gently but firmly, told him that there were a great number of things she would rather do with him on a Saturday morning, that did not involve getting chased by dachshunds in the park.

“So,” said the Doctor. “Ice cream. On me.”

“Sophie was surprised. “You’ve got money?”

The Doctor smiled. “Not as such, but I’m sure they’ll accept some of the treasure of Blackbeard,” he said, pulling out a bag of dubloons.

He turned to go into the shop, but Craig caught him by the arm. “Wait. Doctor, we need to know- what’s going on with this place? Is it being run by an alien who wants to take over the world’s ice cream supply, or something?”

The Doctor laughed.

“No, Craig. There’s absolutely nothing to worry about.”

“But this is what you do. Everywhere you go there’s something alien. And usually dangerous.”

The Doctor smiled, and looked at both of them.There was an immense fondness in his eyes. “Believe me,” he said, “I’ve been coming here a long time. And I promise you, there is nothing to be afraid of. We’re just here for an ice cream and a catch-up.”

He turned and strolled into the shop.

“Anyway, I dealt with the dangerous alien stuff ages ago. It’s all perfectly safe now. Probably. Almost certainly. Maybe.”

Sophie and Craig looked at each other, and then followed the Doctor into the shop.

Sophie held Craig’s hand.


	3. 3 February

“I have never been so insulted in my life!”

“Look, sir, there’s no need to get upset-”

“Upset? UPSET? I believe that I have every right to be upset at such flagrant disrespect! I have graced this fine frozen dairy emporium for nearly a millennium, young man, and in all that time I have never been subjected to such egregious ridicule! I shall be reporting you to the manager, mark my words! The very nerve!”

The tirade concluded, allowing the awkward silence that had pervaded the parlour its moment to shine. The spotty, gangly youth behind the counter watched the rather portly middle-aged man with the ludicrously frizzy hair stride out, his patchwork coat flapping behind him. He was a little shell-shocked. He adjusted his collar, and nervously cleared his throat. The three other customers returned to their ice cream. The young woman ordered a chocolate sundae, and as the still rather shaken lad prepared it for him, she asked,

“What was Joseph so annoyed about?”

“Sorry?”

“Joseph. Him with the amazing Technicolour dreamcoat.”  
“Oh, him. No idea. For some reason he got really upset when I told him we weren’t expecting the kiddies’ clown until next Saturday…”


	4. 4 February

“Honestly, Professor, trust you to take us for ice cream in the middle of winter!”

“What better time? No crowds, no queues, and anyway the TARDIS is very temperamental when it comes to Wales. There are a lot of space-time anomalies in this area.”

“So you’re admitting you can’t control it? You’re hopeless, you are.”

“Oh Ace, where’s your sense of adventure? Who wants to control things? Life is so much more interesting if you allow the time streams to take you where they will! Only the dullest of minds require constant stability.”

“That’s not what you said when I put your DVD back in the wrong box.”

“There is a difference between keeping things interesting and deliberately mucking about! That was a limited edition of Princess Mononoke, I had to wait for hours to get it signed! I’ve had a particular fondness for that film since…oh, I must have been a tender two hundred when I first saw it.”

“It’s not…that good, though, is it?”

“How very dare you! Princess Mononoke is a classic, revered throughout the galaxy!”

“It’s a bit slow in the middle.”

“A bit… Winner of the Saturn Award for Best Home Video Release! Winner of the Nebula Award for best script! Three-time winner of the Most Highly Prized and Honourable Position on the Shelf of Rassilon! A bit slow in the middle?!?”

“Alright Professor, no need to get shirty! I just preferred the one with the massive robot.”

“Ah. Pacific Rim?”

“No, what was that other one?”

“War of the Worlds?”  
“Nah, bit grim.”

“I have to agree with you there. Iron Giant?”

“Never seen it.”

“Never…You’ve never seen The Iron Giant?”

“No. Is it important?”  
“Ace, listen to me very carefully, this may be the most important thing I’ll ever tell you. It is imperative that you see the Iron Giant.”

“Oh. Alright then.”

“In fact, you’ve finished your ice cream, let’s go and see it now! Let me see… 2040 cinematic re-release should fit the bill…and let’s try…New York.”

“Wicked!”

“And let’s not have a repeat of what happened on our tour of Versailles, shall we?”

“What do you mean?”  
“You know perfectly well what I mean, Ace. It is regarded as good manners in polite society to wait until a building is fully constructed, before attempting a demolition, no matter how…impromptu. We were lucky Madame de Maintenon was so understanding.”

“It wasn’t my fault, Professor! Put a wall in my way and I’ll smash it down!”

“I never should have let you watch Gurren Lagann.”

“Gurren Lagann! That was it!”


	5. 5 February

So this was where he’d ended up this time.

After waking up in a totally redecorated TARDIS with a totally redecorated body, he’d decided to dig out the old randomiser- it wasn’t like he had anyone following him any more, but every time he looked at the console, he just couldn’t feel the old excitement. He’d been fighting for too long. The spark had gone out of him, so he was letting the old girl decide for herself where she wanted to go. And now she had brought him here. To one of his old haunts. He had come here with so many companions… Ha. Companions. How very naive. How many lives had been wrecked by gallivanting off with him? But he had been so much younger then. The universe had seemed so much kinder. Dangerous, yes, but more responsive to friendly gestures… He sighed. 

He wandered over to the ice cream shop, fastening his leather jacket against the chill. Why had the TARDIS brought him here? It wasn’t even open. “Closed for Bank Holiday” read the sign on the door to the darkened parlour. He frowned. Since when was the fifth of February a Bank Holiday? He sighed. Who knew anything about Earth history now? The war had disrupted everything, there was no telling what events had now happened or not happened, or in which order they had done so. Time was still wounded.

Time.

That was it! He knew he’d forgotten something! That extraordinary young woman, the one who’d saved his life, what, a year ago now? There was something he’d forgotten to tell her. A grin flashed across his face, as quick and brilliant as lightning. He laughed. For the first time in ages, he let out a proper, happy, ecstatic laugh.

The Doctor turned, ran up the empty street, and into his TARDIS. 

There was a chance. A very slight chance, but still. He looked at his reflection in the time rotor, and practiced:

“Oh, and did I mention…?”


	6. 6 February

SFX of a phone ringing. SFX of the phone being picked up.

MANAGER: Hello?

THE DOCTOR: Greetings, Earthling! Am I speaking to a representative of the establishment known on Earth as Courtney’s Café and Ice Cream Parlour?

MANAGER: Err…yeah.

THE DOCTOR: Excellent! And may I just say that I think your Knickerbocker Glories are among the finest this galaxy has to offer.

MANAGER: (Laughs nervously). Thank you.

THE DOCTOR: You’re very welcome. Now, I contact you today from beyond the pale of time and space because I have a tremendous business opportunity for you!

MANAGER: …Oh right.

THE DOCTOR: Yes, well you see, I have come across an immense quality of a certain commodity which may prove very useful to an establishment such as yours.

MANAGER: What is it?

THE DOCTOR: Well, my good man, how would you like to buy thirty crates of jelly babies?

MANAGER: Jelly babies?

THE DOCTOR: Yes, I have managed to procure a vast quantity of the popular Earth-produced sweetmeat. I’ve been trying to get rid of them by offering them to strangers at awkward moments, but I thought it might be rather more efficient to simply sell them to a culinary establishment such as yours. Shall we say, two hundred quid?

MANAGER: Have they fallen off the back of a lorry?

THE DOCTOR: Well as a matter of fact, I procured them after a wormhole opened connecting the interior of my TARDIS and the interior of an intergalactic freighter that just happened to be carrying several crates of Earth confectionary. I acquired these jelly babies when they fell through said hole in the space-time continuum. Now can I interest you in purchasing them?

MANAGER: (Awkward laughter). No…No thanks.

THE DOCTOR: Ah well. I’ll see if I can’t shift them down the old Gallifreyan market. There’s a Silurian geezer down there who’s mad for them.

MANAGER: (Still laughing). Right, well, good luck.

THE DOCTOR: Actually, while I’ve got you, you wouldn’t happen to be interested in purchasing a guard dog, would you? Good condition, hardly used, lovely chrome finish?

MANAGER: What’s wrong with it? 

THE DOCTOR: Absolutely nothing. He’s loyal, intelligent, and has his name written on his side in big white letters, as a helpful little reminder.

MANAGER: Why do you want to sell it?

THE DOCTOR: The little bastard keeps beating me at chess.

MANAGER: (Laughs).Alright then, we’ll take it.

THE DOCTOR: Really! Excellent! I’ll stop by and drop him off yesterday!

THE MANAGER: (Sniggers). Yeah, alright.

THE DOCTOR: Oh, just one more thing. Are there any stairs at all in this establishment of yours?

MANAGER: Er, yes, we’ve got a first floor.

THE DOCTOR: Ah. Well that might represent a bit of a problem.


	7. 7 February

“Doctor?”

“Yes, Lucie?”

The Doctor put down his book, and focused his attention on Lucie across the table. 

“Need help with that Knickerbocker Glory?”

“No chance,” replied Lucie, grinning.

“Then how may I help you, Lucie Miller? I feel I should inform you that I had just reached a particularly exciting bit of my book.”

“Well, that’s what I wanted to ask you.”

“What is?”

“That book. You’re not reading it like you normally do. I’ve seen you reading- you just flick through and have the whole thing memorised in about ten seconds.”

“What of it?”  
“I’m just saying, I wish I could of done that in school.”

“Have. Could have done that in school.”

Lucie adopted the same expression of extreme patience she usually did when the Doctor went grammar-Nazi.

“Whatever. But you’re reading that book there really slowly- almost at a normal speed. What is it?”  
“This?” said the Doctor, lifting the thick, leather-bound volume off the table, and turning it to face her, “Is Cloud Atlas, by David Mitchell, an Earth classic. And I’m reading it slowly, Lucie, because some books you can tear through in a few hours and forget in a few minutes, particularly when you’ve read as many as I have.”

“Show-off.”

“Perhaps, perhaps” the Doctor conceded, smiling. “But some books are worth savouring, letting the tides of eloquent language wash over you, enjoying the flow of words as you and the author enter a beautiful dialogue, a dance of linguistic ecstasy.”

Lucie was not sure whether the Doctor was taking the piss.

“So, what’s it about then?”

“Oh, Lucie Miller, what isn’t it about? It’s about… the human race’s fundamentally shared humanity, about the wholly imaginary lines people draw between themselves and their arts, and about the recurrence of patterns throughout history.”

“Right. You don’t know.”

The Doctor looked affronted. Lucie laughed. 

“I certainly do know! It’s postmodern!”  
“What’s that then?”

The Doctor floundered. “Well, um, the… questioning..erm… well it’s about the… the, um…there are usually aliens in there somewhere. Except when there aren’t. And then there’s…um…”

The Doctor stopped. Lucie was roaring with laughter, and slapping the table a good deal.

He waited patiently, looking a little pink.

“Finished?”

“S-sorry,” Lucie choked back tears of laughter. “It’s just that I found out a while ago that the best way to wind up a clever-clogs is to ask them about postmodernism.”

“Oh? And how did you find that out?”

“I has this friend at school, much cleverer than me- she let me copy her homework a few times- Clara, her name was. Anyway, she wanted to be an English teacher.”

“A noble profession.”

“If you say so. Anyway, we were chatting once about David Bowie and she mentioned that post-modern thingy. I asked what it was, and she tied herself in knots trying to explain. It was priceless.”

The Doctor chuckled. “Oh, that poor young woman. Well, better minds than hers or mine have struggled with the ideas of postmoderism.”

“Obviously.”

“Like what comes after postmoderism? Post-postmodernism? And then what? Post-post-postmoderism? I tell you, Lucie, it’s a slippery slope. Actually…”

The Doctor’s eyes lit up. Lucie had seen this bit before, and knew that a new idea had struck him. Any minute now, he would go tearing off-

“What do you say we go back and tell them that? Go and see the birth of the greatest artistic movement of the twentieth century?”

The Doctor had that wildly earnest look on his face. For such a sarcastic get, Lucie thought, he was like a little kid when it came to finding new places to go.

“Sounds a bit boring, Doctor, to be honest. Can’t we go back and see the Beatles again instead?”

“Oh, Lucie Miller, when is traveling with me ever boring?” The Doctor leapt to his feet. “And why not do both? Come on, Lucie, we’ve places to be, people to see!”

He headed straight for the door, then turned back to Lucie, suddenly deadly serious.

“And an awful lot of literary criticism to do.”

With that, he rushed for the door. Lucie stood up, stretched, and followed him. She didn’t like to admit it, but she was beginning to feel the familiar rush. She and the Doctor were off. She felt scared, excited, and completely alive. There was always somewhere new to explore, someone new to meet. With the Doctor, you never stood still very long. There was always another adventure, waiting just around the corner. And right now, the two of them were heading straight for it at top speed. She just hoped it was ready for them.


	8. 8 February

Another Saturday, another commute, another weirdo. Well, I say “commute”, what I really mean is “a ten-minute walk to my Saturday job at Courtney’s”. The weirdo part is definitely true though. I see a lot of strange people in this job. Courtney’s seems to attract them like flies- all sorts of odd people arrive here, out of nowhere, buy ice cream, and then vanish. People have come in wearing bow ties, clown costumes, jumpsuits, smoking jackets, celery, oh you name it. Maybe it’s the Welsh weather, and these people just go mad from not seeing the sun for six months.

Ah, but I shouldn’t complain. They’re some of our best customers. I suspect, though the manager won’t discuss such matters with a lowly Saturday girl like me, that they’re the only reason the place hasn’t shut down yet. Especially in the middle of winter.

Anyway, I was walking down the high street, and it’s not what you’d call a bustling thoroughfare at the best of times, but at 6AM on a Saturday it’s utterly dead. Which was why I was so startled when a tall, tweedy weirdo jumped out from behind the butcher’s, clutching a brown envelope, and knocked right into me. 

“Oh, sorry,” he said, turning away down the street, before spinning around on his heels to look at me, then back down the street, then back at me. I noticed he was looking towards Courtney’s, dark and empty in the early morning gloom. 

“Are you alright?” I asked him, a little unnerved by his constant swivelling. His body seemed to be composed entirely of joints, all of them moving at the same time.

“Fine.” he answered. Then he grinned. I felt I needed sunglasses, which is an odd feeling in Wales. It’s like needing a parka in Egypt. “Actually, I’m feeling absolutely brilliant. Fantastic! Allons-y! Except not the last one. Just been doing some…self-examination.” His grin became, somehow, even wider, but if there was some joke he obviously wasn’t sharing it with me. He gazed into the middle distance, and I had just begun tiptoeing around him to try and get to work on time, when he stopped me.

“Hang on… do you work there?” he pointed at the parlour, and I nodded. “We’re opening in half an hour, sir, so if you’d like to-”

“Oh no, nothing like that. Thanks, though. I love that place. It means a lot to me. I’ve been there many times. Had many ice creams.” A shadow seemed to pass across his face, but it was gone almost as soon as it had come, as if he had remembered something more important.

“But there is one I have tried very hard to forget.”

“Oh…right.” I said, at a bit of a loss.

He now looked a little sheepish, and thrust the envelope at me. “Here,” he said. “Take this. It’s the least I can do.”

I took it from him, hoping this would make him go away. It was heavy. I opened it, and inside were a load of banknotes. Counting them, they added up to two hundred quid. I held one up to the light. It looked genuine. “I-” I turned back to the stranger. 

But he was gone. Fine. I’m wasn’t going to turn down free cash if somebody was mad enough to give it to me. But what did he mean by “the least he could do…?

It was only when I finally got to Courtney’s Café and Ice Cream Parlour that I realised it was probably something to do with the fact that some joker had sprayed the words “NO MORE” onto the wall of the shop with chocolate sauce, and that we were mysteriously missing roughly two hundred quid’s worth of ice cream. I sighed, and went to fetch a mop. Clearly, this was going to be a long day.


	9. 9 February

“Every great decision creates ripples. Like a huge boulder dropped in a lake. Imagine if I could control the climate. If I decided that no berries would be grown in this country. That would make a difference. All those people who livelihoods come from harvest and sell them. All those ecosystems of which they form the tiniest part, but remove one plant, and the entire thing comes crashing down. The ripples merge and rebound off the banks. The consequences-”

“Oh, not you again! I’ve told you before, I’m not paying my staff to listen to philosophical lectures! Just eat your raspberry ripple and piss off!”


	10. 10 February

The icy Welsh air  
Swirls in early morning glow;  
The white light flashes.

-

Familiar Creak:  
The young couple steps out, and  
Onto the cold street.

-

She holds out her hand.  
He takes it, nervous. Her skin  
Is warm. Feels her pulse.

-

She can sense it. His  
Constant need to move, tempered  
Because she is here.

-

They both stand stock still,  
Breath rising in clouds. Relish  
This silent moment.

-

They both shiver in  
The midwinter mist. They draw  
Closer together.

-

And then they walk on.  
Teasing, flirting. Enjoying  
Their Morning After.


	11. 11 February

Some days are special. Some days are so, so blessed. Some days, the rain pours down, the manager leaves town, and I get to choose what to play on the shop stereo. The rain continues to drum against the window of the empty shop. I slip Let It Be into the CD player and lean back against the counter. We haven’t had a single customer all day, and there are only so many times you can wipe down surfaces that haven’t been touched for hours.

The manager isn’t here, so he doesn’t make me play that One Direction crap. He tells me it what brings the kids in, and, because I like money, I always fail to respond that it’s also what drives anyone over the age of twelve out. But he’s gone to shout at employees at another branch, and I’ve got the shop to myself. 

The tinkle of the bell brings me out of my happy reverie, just as “Dig a Pony” comes on. It’s a couple of lads in raincoats, who shake themselves out of them and hang them on the hatstand by the door. Rain drips to the floor, and I try not to think about mopping that up later. They saunter up to the counter; a young lad with dark hair and a kilt, and an older gent with a bow tie. Something odd about him. I mean, more so that the fact his mate is wearing a kilt, in Wales, in February. Something about him seems to…crackle, as if he was constantly…shifting. A sense of non-stop movement, even when he was standing still. At the counter. Waiting for me to take his order. I jerk out of my trance.

“S-sorry. What was that?”

“A knickerbocker glory and a cup of tea, please,” he says, rather impatiently.

“R-right,” I say.

My manager’s in the Cardiff shop today. It’s even smaller than this one, but they do a roaring trade at this time of year, because it’s just round the corner from BBC Wales’ HQ, and right now it’s peak time for television production. For some reason writers just flock there. Maybe it’s the sugar or the caffeine or whatever, that keeps them alive just long enough to finish scripts on time. They’re a strange bunch, by all accounts. Now, we get a few oddballs round here, but that’s nothing compared to what Cardiff has to offer, apparently. My mate Sharon told me on Facebook that this one guy comes into the shop every Wednesday afternoon, this little Scottish bloke with curly black hair. Every Wednesday he comes in, and every Wednesday he says the same thing to her: “I’ll have a scoop of vanilla, please, and the tears of a thousand children.” Then he laughs, and says, “Or failing that, black coffee.” And Sharon says that he’s always got this glint in his eye like he’s only half joking.

Potty Professor and Highland Fling are joined a few minutes later by a young woman with a fantastic black bob, who strolls in with a small white dog on a leash- not technically allowed, but hey, I’m hardly going to tell her to leave it out in the rain- and orders a mango sorbet, before sitting down with the two of them, the Scottish lad pulling up and extra chair, and knocking a further three over in the process. When I come over to pick them up, I overhear some of their conversation:

KILT: So, where did you find him?

BOB: He was huddled in the doorway of the library, poor thing. I had to look a few times to make sure it was him, you know what the rain does to their coats.

KILT: Ah, you’re alright now, aren’t ye, ye wee beastie? 

The dog shakes itself, spraying the three of them with rainwater. They apparently find this hilarious, whereas I am annoyed about another sodding thing to clean. After the shake, though, the dog suddenly looks a lot whiter- more like silver, actually. It’s like it glows. I hurry back to the counter lest I be accused of eavesdropping.

BOW TIE: Well, I say we finish our ice cream, and get this lad home, shall we?

KILT: Aw, Doctor, can’t we keep it?

BOW TIE: No, Jamie, Lupin belongs with his family on Lunar Colony 7, and they trusted us to come and pick him up after he fell into that wormhole. 

BOB: Well said, Doctor. Jamie, how very wicked of you!

KILT: I’m sorry, I just got caught up in things. It’s been so long since we did anything like this!

BOW TIE: What do you mean, Jamie?

BOB: I know what he means, Doctor. It’s been ages since we’ve done something so…small. Usually it’s so dark, so scary… It’s nice to just do a good deed for someone we know, for a change.

BOW TIE(suddenly looks tired): You’re right. You know…sometimes I worry. I worry that the only good I can do for people is fighting their monsters for them. That I can’t help them after the monsters are gone. That I can get people out of a crisis, but I can’t help them with the task of living. It is a far greater task. And a far more terrible one. 

KILT: Oh, don’t be like that! That’s what we’re doing now, isn’t it?

BOW TIE (perking up a bit): I suppose so.

BOB: Doctor. (Puts her hand on Bow Tie’s) Whatever we do, wherever we go, (looks into his eyes, then into Kilt’s) we’re here to help. And we do that however we can.

BOW TIE looks at them both, and smiles. He’s so proud of them.

Fade to black.


	12. 12 February

In a place far, far away, unknowable to Gallifreyans and inconceivable to their rational minds, Rassilon and Omega discussed their plans over strong, dark beverages, steaming with an intense heat. There was a third man. The other toyed with a berry sundae as he listened to their argument:

“We are talking here of technology which could rewrite the fundamental laws of the universe! Take your ego out of the equation!”

Omega snorted; “Interfering with the very fabric of reality is an artful process! I must be allowed a certain degree of operational autonomy!”

“Perhaps. But you must be warned: if this does not go according to plan, Gallifrey will be dragged down from its lofty position, turned to dust as its own causality is torn apart. You are asking me to jeopardise the entire cosmos for the sake of your own egomania!” 

“How dare you accuse me of egomania, when your own-”

There was a clatter of metal on glass, and the Omega and Rassilon turned to face the other;

“Will you two just kiss already?”


	13. 13 February

"Two coffees, please. To take away."

"No problem."

"Thanks."

"Listen, are you alright?"

"Why wouldn’t I be alright? I’m absolutely fine. Good, actually. I feel like a new man!"

"…Right. It’s just that you look a bit…I don’t know, tired."

"Well… let’s just say I have a lot on my plate at the moment. I set out to do something very, very simple, but it’s all become this great spirit of adventure. I’ve been running around all over the place. Seeing to a few things. Tying up loose ends. Let’s just say I’ve been out of the loop for a while."

"…Right. Well, here’s your coffees, that’ll be- Oh my God! What the hell is that?"

The young man behind the counter pointed, horrified, out of the parlour’s large front window. The tall, grey, Scottish man glanced over his shoulder. He calmly replied:

"A horse."

"I can see that! What’s it doing here?"

The man’s eyes gave flash of anger, and the young man seemed cowed. The tall man grabbed the coffees off the counter in their cardboard container.

"She’s here to talk to me. And she’s not an "it"."

The tall, grey Scot strode out, the bell on the door tinkling after him.

"Fancy seeing you here."

The horse whinnied.

"Don’t play games with me. Contact."

"That’s better. Hello, Doctor."

"Hello."

"Changed your appearance, I see. Don’t like it."

"I don’t need your approval."

"Of course not. Now listen-"

"I know why you’re here."

"Well, quite. Couldn’t evade the problem of Susan forever, could you?"

"How did you find me? I can’t have anyone following me."

"I got a lift from a lovely young stallion named Arthur. He sends his regards, by the way. But don’t change the subject."

“Look, what I did, I did under extreme pressure, and I made a mistake-“

"No!"

“I’m sorry?”

"No. Come on! Get it right!"

“I don’t know what you-“

“You know perfectly well what I mean! Messing about with your face doesn’t grant you a licence to emotional laziness! You messed up, and you still haven’t apologised! You’re still trying to big yourself up!”

"Listen, I-"

“You let me down! I told you something important, and you made it into some stupid joke! Buck your ideas up!”

The Doctor was silent for a moment. His bravado had evaporated. He hung his head.

"Yes. You’re right. I’m sorry."

“That’s more like it.”

“You see, I’d spent the last few hundred years swanning about, thinking I was the most important man in the universe. The Doctor, always right, always in charge, always the hero. He could never do anything wrong, or stupid, or hurtful! That’s who I was when I met you.”

“Say it.”

“Never cruel or cowardly. That was what I told myself. Stupid and arrogant, but there it is.”

“You see, Doctor, there’s your problem- the moment you define yourself by what you aren’t is the moment you start to lose control over what you are.”

"I know. What I did that day was wrong. And I am so, so sorry."

There was a long silence, as Susan and the Doctor simply looked at each other, alone in the cold, deserted street.

"Better," said Susan, and walked away.

The Doctor nodded. He was halfway to his TARDIS, and had just begun to reach for his key, when he realised that Susan had walked off with his coffee. 

He shrugged. It was the very least he could do for her.


	14. 14 February

"I am the night!"

The tall, muscular man clad in black armour looked up from the pavement he had just dramatically landed on, to see if anyone was paying attention to him. He was greeted by a row of slack-jawed couples, lining up outside the brightly lit ice cream parlour. The place was draped in streamers and heart-shaped balloons, and had a banner saying “2-for-1 Valentine’s Day special” hanging in the window.

The man in black armour was nonplussed, and a few of the queuing couples were staring to giggle.

Then a tall, thin, greying man in a silk shirt and flamboyantly-cut smoking jacket stepped to the front of the crowd.   
“Well, I am the Doctor, and you can stand in line like everyone else!”  
The muscular man looked at his shoes.

The Doctor gave a warm smile. 

He offered his arm to the caped crusader.

"Come on," he said. "Let’s get an ice cream."


	15. 15 February

"Oh for heaven’s sake! I thought I had witnessed the very height of cheek and impudence, but I now realise that was a mere hors d’oeuvre to this mockery, this absolute travesty of excessive impoliteness masquerading as customer service! There is only one word for that kind of behaviour-"

"Are you sure about that, Doc? ‘Cause you’ve used a hell of a lot more than one word so far."

"I am trying to make a point, Frobisher! The point being that this young man’s accusation was grossly unfounded, patently ridiculous and downright rude!"

"Oh for goodness’ sake, this time you’ve got a talking penguin!"

"Doctor. I think it would be a good idea if we left. Like, right now. Before I have to show this clown my Tyrannosaurus form to teach ‘im a few manners."

"Quite right, Frobisher. And I may assure this young man that we shall take our custom elsewhere in future! Good day!"


	16. 16 February

Rows of bright colour  
Frozen beneath the glass for  
Customers to browse.

-

The Doctor admires  
Human ingenuity   
Which made this parlour.

-

He travels alone;  
Sometimes it is painful to  
Return to this place.

-

All those memories-  
Tables where he sat with his friends-  
Tear-stained formica.

-

Martha comforts him,  
A thousand lifetimes ago,  
And three days away.

-

And there’s the booth where  
He shared tea and swapped stories  
With Iris Wildthyme.

-

He fled his home world  
For a life of transience,  
And this is its cost. 

-

This parlour is a   
Fixed point. In an unfixed life.  
Haunted by the past.

-

He never mentions  
His old friends. But they never  
Wholly leave his thoughts.

-

He always finds new   
Friends. But that doesn’t stop them  
From breaking his hearts.

-

He sometimes wonders  
If he hasn’t come as far  
As he really can.

-

He sighs, puts down his  
Spoon. He’d better be off. But  
Then he notices.

-

Across the parlour,  
A woman with wide eyes steps   
Up to the counter.

-

With a manic grin,  
She introduces herself:  
I am the Doctor.

-

The old doctor smiles,  
And leaves via the back door.  
Returns to his box.

-

He’s fond of that place,  
And safe in the knowledge that  
One day she’ll come back.


	17. 17 February

“Thank you. Oh, er, there’s just one more thing-”

I sighed, reached into the special box we keep below the counter, and pulled out a stick of celery. I stuck it in the whipped cream and then handed the cone to the young man with the pleasant, open face. 

“Thanks,” he said. “Must dash!”

And he took to his heels, his beige coat swirling behind him. I reflected on the various sorts it takes to make a world.

Because Captain Cricketer wasn’t the first odd customer we’d had that day. We’d already had a very earnest Welsh man who had made it a point to stop on his way out and tell me that our ice cream was “Marvellous!”. We had that rather reserved Northern fella who sat down with a cup of coffee in the corner and spent the morning reading children’s annuals and techno-thrillers and Danielle Steel novels. There was that bald bloke with the wide eyes who, for some reason, as soon as he opened his mouth to order two scoops of strawberry ice cream with whipped cream and sprinkles, sent every kid in the parlour running screaming from the room. There was that chubby fella with the wire-framed glasses who had ordered five cans of diet coke and then left, muttering about sorcery and the Metropolitan Police. There was the chap with a mop of curly black hair in a long black coat with black eyes who asked if we had any sushi, then vanished when I said no. There was the old geezer who was really into the sappy love song we were playing on the stereo. There was also the curious incident where some old Scottish guy almost spilt his coffee, but then this young lady caught it before it went off the edge of the table. The old man’s eyes widened- clearly he recognised her. But then another woman came out of the toilet who looked almost exactly the same- maybe she was her twin sister or something, I don’t know. Anyway, the first lady looked a bit embarrassed, coughed, and then ran off. Then there was the middle-aged woman with the wide-brimmed hat and the ancient carpet bag who staggered in and ordered a martini at 10 o’clock in the morning, before staggering over to a table to have a conversation with a stuffed panda. The northern guy seemed pleased to see her. And then of course there was the mad-looking woman who strode in wearing a filthy pair of jogging bottoms and a hoodie, and demanded to know where the nearest fancy dress shop was. I told her about the little place round the corner the Delgado sisters run, and that they had a special offer this week on the Mary Poppins costume. She smiled. It was the most terrifying thing I’d ever seen.

“Thank you,” she said. “And because you’ve been so helpful I’ll be extra special nice, and not kill you.”

I was a little bit freaked out.

All of this is why I was irritated, but not altogether surprised, when the shop front opposite us exploded in a shower of broken glass, and a short, dark-haired man wearing a stupid hat and question mark-themed jumper sprinted into the parlour brandishing an umbrella, shouting about how we were all in terrible danger and we had to follow him straight away. I groaned, and filed out of the shop after him with the rest of the customers. No-one seemed at all worried. We’d all been here before. What annoyed me was that this time it was happening during my lunch break.


	18. 18 February

The Doctor frowned at the scanner, his face bathed in the cool green light of the console; Rose would have her work cut out for her, and Jack was sure to be in trouble yet again; the wires had got crossed somewhere in the belly of the TARDIS, his old girl, his travelling companion which nonetheless welcomed and accommodated all the other strays he brought home, was having a bit of a hiccup; every single door in the TARDIS had suddenly been flung open; the blue wood doors remained fastened against the ravages of the vortex, but within the vulnerable little box every single portal had vanished. The Doctor ran a hand through his close-cropped hair (he must stop doing that, it was becoming a bad habit; he was thankful he didn’t have longer hair, or else it would look a right state), and tapped warily at the controls. Nothing doing. “What’s the matter with you now?” he demanded, but the console room maintained its low ambient hum; the old girl, as ever, was giving him the silent treatment. 

He flung himself into the console room’s shabby, worn, coming-apart-at-the-seams chair. He liked having a chair in the TARDIS, but he couldn’t be doing with that ornate armchair his previous self had had. Or was it the one before? His memories of the Time War used to be so clear- from Karn to the Nightmare Child to Gallifrey to the Moment to the Barn; but things were increasingly blurry there. His memories of that time were unreliable; shove a Time Lord into the heart of a conflict which takes place within time itself and memories start to crack; parts of space and time that should never have touched get rammed together; memories get shot to pieces. But he hadn’t forgotten that incarnation’s fashion sense; a right frock-coated ponce; Lord Byron in space. Lucie had said that; he remembered her; was she the first Northerner he had travelled with? Thinking about Lucie was painful- even in a life which had known a fair amount of pain these last few… what? years? centuries? millennia? Whatever he told Rose, he didn’t actually know his own age. There were no clocks, no calendars, on the TARDIS. Maybe Lucie was the reason why he had this voice now. He’d always been defined by his friends; now he was starting to pick up bits of them, combine them into his personality. Tricky thing, regeneration. 

He gazed into the rotor, rising and falling as the box sped through the silent vortex; that mysterious region where time and space are one; that swirly blue and red thing once filled with traffic, vortisaurs, all manner of life; then home to wars, raging back and forth across the very fabric of reality itself; now home to nothing, silent, still, disturbed only by the mysterious police box that was not a police box at all. The Doctor sighed and stood up again; he found he could never sit still for very long these days. Maybe he was too used to being in constant motion, the foot soldier’s knowledge that combat is never far away; but it wasn’t that. Everything in his life seemed to be going faster these days. Things that used to take him weeks to accomplish, he now found he could race through in forty-five minutes; and he had found that, after the war, even after Lungbarrow, everything in the universe was suddenly looking a lot more…polished. Slick. He wanted to say realistic, if that word were not contrary to everything he stood for. The War had changed everything. Again.

He pulled a few levers, threw a few switches, worked at the bicycle pump; they would have to land soon. After the war, he had spent weeks in the vortex, revisiting the old battlegrounds; nothing there. But now he had a couple of humans scurrying about the place, they wanted to be doing something every twenty-four hours. It had been so long since he last had companions. Their perception of time was so different; they had one-track minds, always focused on one time-stream, one present, one set of possible outcomes. His perspective was saturated; he could see all that was, all that had been, all that ever could be, all that ever could have been; a kind of temporal synesthesia. It had always been like that, of course, but before he’d had a whole planetful of others to share it with. Now there was just him, alone in his head. And his own time was getting more confusing to keep track of; he wanted to put it down to the war, but even before that; after Ace had turned and said to him “Home”; God, Ace, what had happened to her? He could remember everything since then at least three different, and totally contradictory, ways. His memories were saturated with alternatives. It got even worse when Lord Byron turned up; his past seemed ever more contradictory, multivalent, irreconcilable. He shrugged. Such was life, even for a Time Lord. The he noticed a cup of tea, sitting in a saucer on a corner of the console; of course, Rose had brought it in for him, just before she went off for a bath. She and Jack would want to go somewhere soon. He took a sip; it was cold. 

That was it! That was where he would take them! He leapt at the controls, and he felt the TARDIS thrum beneath his fingertips; the old engines roared into life, and the familiar wheezing, groaning sound echoes through the now doorless corridors of his ancient timeship. He was taking Jack and Rose to Courtney’s.

The rotor shuddered as he glanced up from the console; Rose walked into the room. The Doctor gave her his customary broad grin; she returned that beaming smile of hers. He was so glad he had started travelling with humans again. This human in particular. She was quite possibly the best thing that had ever happened to him. She was always eager, willing to see and do new things. Always wanting to go to new places. Help out. Learn. She was about to ask the Doctor what had happened to all the doors- she had been about to open the door to the wardrobe when the doorknob has disintegrated beneath her fingers- why did the TARDIS doors have doorknobs anyway? Had Time Lord door technology not evolved past the standards of twentieth-century Earth? Gallifreyan decor still clearly had a long way to go. But she stopped. The Doctor had that familiar mad glint in his eye. That meant he was either about to take them somewhere completely new and exciting, or that he was about to blow up the TARDIS. Possibly both.

“What’s going on, Doctor?”

She had increasingly found herself asking that question; it was swiftly becoming a stock phrase for her. This was in one sense worrying, but in another somewhat reassuring, to have a reliable set of phrases to fall back on upon the frequent occasions the Doctor would act mysterious, intriguing, or wilfully obtuse. She looked up and saw the rotor still rising and falling, rising and falling, as the box sped through the blackness punctuated by swirls of blue. The Doctor had told her that the vortex was in a constant state of flux; sometimes it looked like this, other times it was similar but done up in red. Previously there had been far more flotsam and jetsam floating around, and mysterious faces would flare up through the confusion, and vanish just as you thought you were about to recognise them. Sometimes Rose thought she could make out mysterious messages through the haze, some form of writing or ancient hieroglyphics or freak time eddies that just happened to resemble human writing, but she could never be sure; they always vanished the second she tried to concentrate on them. Travelling on the TARDIS was odd; sometimes it simply felt like using any other vehicle, albeit with somewhat irregular dimensions, an infinity contained within a grimy, shabby, well-worn shape; other times she thought she could feel the ship moving through all of time and space. Every time- Christmas day, Rose’s birthday, the 27th of May 1996- all of it. There were times and places where another Rose, a younger Rose, sat in a doctor's waiting room, or stared out of a bus window, not knowing that they were there, there and yet not there, flowing through the moment just as they flowed through an infinity of moments, a stream of fixity running through an ever-shifting, ever-changing, constantly momentous universe. Until they stopped. Until they put their feet down in the stream, came to a standstill, and materialised, somewhere in the effervescent infinity of creation. Somewhere, they had to stop. Rose wondered if this was how the Doctor could stand it. Maybe this constant motion would drive one mad after a while, and it was only by stopping that one could maintain any sensible grasp on one’s place in the universe. She had tried asking the Doctor about this, in a roundabout way; how do you just directly come out and ask someone their view of their place in the universe? The Doctor had always dodged the question. Nine hundred years of withholding his name had probably made him very good at dodging questions. Where were they off to now?

“We’re going for a cuppa. Just a nice cup of tea. No fuss, no messing about, no aliens, I promise. Well, except this one. Where’s Jack? Tell him he needs to hurry up.”

At that precise moment, as if on cue, or as if spectacularly missing his cue and dashing onto the stage two minutes late and attempting to make up for the deficiency with sheer bravado and charisma, which would be obnoxious if not for its infuriatingly undeniable effectiveness, Jack waltzed into the room, belting out ‘We’ll Meet Again’ at the top of his lungs, and pulled the Doctor into a bear hug.

“So, where we going for this tea then, Doctor? Not Boston again, I hope?”

And there were those shining, white, pristine teeth. Those teeth that drove the Doctor crazy. That smile, that annoying, roguish, utterly irresistible and infectious smile, took his breath away even as it irritated him. He had spent so lang rattling around the universe in his rackety old TARDIS, yet he had never run into anyone like Jack before. The Doctor didn’t understand; he had faced off against Autons, a Dalek, any number of crack stormtroopers and a handful of all-consuming alien plagues this week alone, yet he had never felt half as scared of any of them as he was of the thrill that shot down his spine whenever Jack touched him. It wasn’t that he was scared of Jack; how could he be? But the Doctor had never felt like this before. All this time, all those adventures, and here was the Big Bad Time Lord scared of a little physical contact; scared, and yet, somewhere, in the labyrinth of obfuscation and black holes where memories should have been that was his mind, there was an instinct, chained up, long dormant, awoken at the time-traveller’s touch. 

He smiled at Jack, and hugged him back, properly this time. Jack smiled back as they broke apart.

Jack had been alone for a long time; all those years cooped up in his ship, conning Time Agency middlemen; a whole lot of Glenn Miller and a distinct lack of dancing; until Flag Girl and U-Boat Captain arrived. And now here they were, travelling the cosmos together; wanderers in the fourth dimension; it was brilliant. And now they were off to see and learn something new; sure, it was just an early twenty-first century Cafe, but Jack had travelled with the Doctor long enough to know that, with the Doctor, nowhere, nothing and nobody were “just” anything. Besides, he still owed the Doctor that drink…

The engines ground to a halt. 

“Right,” said the Doctor, as he made his way to the doors. “Courtney’s Café and Ice Cream Parlour. Best ice cream this side of Milan.”

“What about the other side?” asked Jack.

“Yeah,” said Rose. “Why can’t we go there?”

“Don’t be daft,” said the Doctor. “They don’t do tea in Milan.”

He grinned. 

He flung open the doors.


	19. 19 February

The Doctor stepped through the TARDIS doors to find a gun pointed in her face.

“Who are you?” demanded the tall, gaunt man. He wore a long, dark coat and had a silver eye patch over his left eye, humming with electricity. He also had a gun. 

The Doctor clicked her fingers, the TARDIS doors slammed shut, and she leaned against them, quite at her ease.

“Show me how clever you are, boy,” she said, cooly. “Work it out.”

The man frowned. He wasn’t used to victims being this flippant. The patch over his eye lit up as he scanned the woman leaning against the battered old police box. She was short, with brown hair, dark eyes, and a quietly gleeful demeanour. She was wearing a red and black checkered shirt, an olive green coat, blue jeans and lightweight black boots. She smiled at him, amused, as he completed his scan. 

“Visual records correspond with that of the human known as Clara Oswald.”

“Ah, well that’s where you’re wrong. Honestly, if I had a quid for every time someone mistook the pair of us… Now come on, try again- who am I?”

“You are Clara Oswald.”

“No! Come on! Get it right! Who could fool you like this? Who could hide right under your nose? Who could change their face any time they want? Hmm? You see, I'm not Clara Oswald. Though she may have been an influence on my artistic decisions this time around.”

“You are not Clara Oswald?”  
“Finally staring to catch on, are we? You’re right, I’m not- much shorter than she was, hair’s a slightly different shade, the nose is a bit more conspicuous.”

“Your appearance is immaterial!”

“You’re right there. Which makes it interesting that you tried to identify me by what I looked like, rather than, say, the fact that I just stepped out of a big blue box which mysteriously appeared out of nowhere.”

The cyborg was confused. “Then… you are…”

“That’s right. I’m your worst nightmare. I’m the Doctor!”

The cyborg snapped back into place, his confusion banished. “The Doctor is public enemy number one, wanted on multiple charges of theft and damage to property-“

“In hindsight, probably should have taken those library books back.”

“-As well as several traffic violations-“

“What can I say? I used to be a lot worse at parking this thing. These male drivers, eh?”

“The Doctor must accompany me back to Garozone IV, there to stand trial for her crimes-“

“No, I don’t think so.”

“What?”

“I said, no.”  
“What is the meaning of this negative?”

“I’ll tell you what it means,” said the Doctor. “It means that I’m not coming anywhere with you. Because you clearly haven’t done your research. Not only did you not recognise me, you failed to account for the most important fact, the one thing that anyone coming after me needs to know if they want any hope of walking away in one piece.”

“What is that?”

The Doctor smiled, wider than ever, a dancing glee in her eyes. 

“My friends are very used to getting me out of scrapes.”

The cyborg only had a single moment of bafflement before he was hit in the back with a plasma cannon operated a soldier from the UNIT convoy which had assembled down the road while the Doctor distracted the metallic mercenary.

“What time do you call this?” demanded the Doctor, as the familiar face of Kate Stewart made its way through the row of soldiers and came to greet her.

“Ah Doctor, nice to see you again,” said Kate. “Sorry about the delay, had to evacuate all the civilians for about a mile around.” Kate looked sardonically at the Doctor, who stood with arms folded and a frown on her face. “But I knew I could rely on you to keep him talking. That always was your greatest skill.”

The Doctor’s icy facade evaporated, and she wrapped Kate in a sudden, powerful hug.

“Some things never change,” the Doctor laughed. 

The two of them broke apart, Kate a little dazed from the unexpected embrace. “Now, I was after an ice cream,” said the Doctor. She held out a hand.

“Care to join me?”


	20. 20 February

There is a place I have to go at twelve o’clock tonight.  
There is a place the Doctor knows he’ll always see the light.

I’ll wait, silent, the frozen street, outside the darkened shop.  
The shadow in the foggy air will pause a second, stop.

A silent nod from the scarred face; enough for him to show  
He acknowledges my presence; it’s time for him to go-

To return to the battlefield, and to his war unjust  
The war that he will soon conclude when he does what he must.

But not tonight, I promise you, I’ll meet him, face to face.  
Tonight I’ll wrap my broken time lord in a warm embrace.


	21. 21 February

The Doctor had never had the best dress sense in the world, but this time he had properly surpassed himself in utterly tasteless clothing. He also had a different face, but, to be honest, Donna was more focused on his coat (and frankly, who can blame her?). It looked like a rainbow had been sick on Joseph’s Technicolour Dreamcoat. She half expected him to burst into song.

“Can I help you, young lady?” The Doctor was used to people staring at his coat- one reason for his choosing it was that it often made a useful distraction- villains would often be so busy trying to comprehend his sartorial ludicrousness that he could surreptitiously purloin whatever weaponry they happened to be carrying. That was if they didn’t just outright forget whatever their nefarious plan was supposed to be, so dumbstruck were they by the spectacularly ill-advised nature of his outfit. That had happened on more than one occasion. 

“Yeah,” said Donna. “Are you the Doctor?”

The Doctor drew himself up to his fullest height, and grasped his lapels. He adopted a look of great wisdom and pride.

“Why yes, I am. How may I be of assistance?” 

The Doctor’s look of great wisdom and pride evaporated.

Donna was laughing.

“What?” demanded the Doctor, nettled.

“Sorry,” said Donna, tears streaming down her face, her speech still occasionally interrupted by silent convulsions of laughter. “But you haven’t half let yourself go, have you?”

“Let myself go? Young lady, I will have you know-“

“Oi, Spaceman, less of this “young lady”- I have got a name!”

“Oh yes? And what might that be?”

“Don’t play games with me, Spaceman! You know who I am as well as I do!”

“I haven’t the faintest idea who you might be. Unless…Oh no- are you the Rani?”

“Who?”

“Thought not. Never mind.”

“Anyway, come on Doctor, it’s me! Remember? Christmas day? Robot Santa? Adipose? Pompeii? The Library?”

Donna was hurt. All those places, all those wonderful adventures, and now the Doctor was looking at her as if she was a stranger. “You don’t remember me?”

“I’m afraid not. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment at that ice cream parlour-“

“Ice cream? Thought you’d gained a bit of weight since I last-wait!”

“A bit of- HOW DARE YOU-"

“Shut up! If you don’t remember me…you must be a different you!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You must be you from before you met me! Blimey, you weren’t joking about that eighties haircut.”

“My hair is immaterial!”

“That’s what he said. Or…you said. Or you said as him…or something like that. He said he wore a terrible wig once…”

“Hang on…You’re telling me that you are a companion of one of my future incarnations?”

“Yeah.”

“Which one?”

“Number ten, I think.”

“And what am I like in the future?”

“You’re a lot skinnier.”

“And tell me, do I drink a lot of carrot juice?”

“Err…No.”

The Doctor pumped his fist. “Yes!”

“What?”

“Never mind. Now, you’d better be getting back to your Doctor. I wouldn’t want to meet me, it could cause all sorts of causality paradoxes.”

“What?”

“It would be rather embarrassing. I don’t tend to get on very well with my other incarnations.”

“Why?”

The Doctor suddenly looked very sad. And very old.

“I’m…rather the black sheep of my string of incarnations. You could say I’m my own middle child.”

“Why’s that, then?”

“Well, firstly it’s the clothes. I’m a bit of a joke. But also…look, I’ve done some very bad things. I must be frank about it; I’ve committed atrocities, things no Time Lord, and certainly no Time Lord calling themselves “The Doctor” should ever countenance. I have never forgiven myself. And they certainly haven’t.” He looked very tired, all of a sudden.

“Doctor…”

“It’s no good. You’d better be getting back to your Doctor. Whatever he’s done, or whatever he ends up doing…whatever I end up doing, it can hardly be worse than what I’ve done in this body.”

“Oh, shut up!”

The Doctor’s tiredness vanished in two heartbeats.

“Excuse me?”

“I told you to shut up. Because all this bleeding heart talk isn’t going to fix anything. Now get your head out of your arse and get back out there!”

The Doctor’s face was flushed with a new vigour.

“You’re absolutely right! I’ll set out this instant! By the way, you never actually told me your name.”

“No,” said Donna, as she took his hand and led him back to the TARDIS. “I didn’t.”

Soon Donna would tell the Doctor her name. But first she made the Doctor change his clothes. The Doctor found his new clothes suited him, and that he suddenly had a much easier time getting served at Courtney’s Cafe and Ice Cream Parlour, which had previously been extremely reticent about taking his orders. This was lucky, because he would be visiting Courtney’s quite a few times in the next few years. 

And so, for that matter, would Donna.


	22. 22 February

“So, do you come here often?”

Orlando looked up from her notebook. She raised an eyebrow. “Has that ever actually worked as a courting strategy? Because it’s at least as old as I am, which, just between you and me, is saying something.”

Jack grinned. “May I sit down?”

Orlando gave him a scathing look. She eyed his long black hair, his old and tattered army surplus coat, his black boots, his square jaw (she had never thought that anyone actually had a square jaw in real life, but she could think of no other adjective for it, and she was in the business of finding new ways to express things). She rolled her eyes. “If you must.”

Jack grinned again, and slid into the booth, opposite Orlando. “You didn’t actually answer my question,” he said.

“No, I didn’t,” Orlando said, blithely. “And you haven’t yet told me your name.”

Jack held out his hand. “Captain Jack Harkness.”

Orlando took it, and tentatively shook. “Orlando.”

“Nice to meet you, Orlando. So, you come here often?”

“There has been an eating and drinking establishment of one form or another on this precise spot for the last four hundred years. I have frequented them all, travel and work permitting. I was particularly keen on the Boar’s Head Inn, but that closed down in 1814.”

“Cool. So what do you do?”

Orlando looked puzzled. “I just told you that I have been coming here for four hundred years.”

“Yes, and now I’m asking you what you do for a living.”

“You don’t think it remotely strange that I would make such a claim?”

“Not at all. To be honest, I’m surprised you’ve managed to keep track of time. I found I lost count around the age of three hundred.”

Orlando snorted. “You’re three hundred years old?”

“Oh, at least five hundred. Just, as I say, I lost count of precisely how old I am.”

“And yet you don’t look a day over forty.”

“And you’re, what, thirty-five?”

“Fair point.”

“So, Orlando, what have you been up to these last four hundred years?”

“Oh, this and that. My estate has given me a fairly reliable income, and it was easier once the Married Woman’s Property Act and all those other bits of legislation came in. Much less of a headache to organise.”

“I guess so,” said Jack. 

“Other than that, I’ve been writing a bit. Had a couple of poetry collections published. All anonymously, of course. Can’t have people paying too close attention to me.”

“Anything I’d have read?”

“Oh, probably not. Mostly about trees.”

“I remember one about an oak tree. Was that one of yours?”

“Yes, actually.”

“Well, it was very good. We did it in school.”

“How? It wasn’t completed until last century.”

“Didn’t I mention? I’m also a time traveler.”

Orlando laughed. “Of course you are. I should have guessed from your rather…anachronistic clothing.”

“Hey!” Jack tugged at his coat, mock-defensively. “I like the look. Retro’s in right now. And after a while I found people just kinda…stopped paying attention to the outfit.” He grinned again. “Guess I’m just that inconspicuous.”

Orlando had been about to make a sardonic remark, when a woman in a leather jacket burst into the shop. She had long black hair and a wild look in her brown eyes. “Jack!” she yelled. “What the hell are you doing here? Rex has found the Chelonians! He’s chasing them down the river! On ICE SKATES!”

Everyone in the Cafe turned to stare at her, and, for that matter, at Jack and Orlando. Jack smiled and waved, before turning to the newcomer.

“Sounds fun,” he said. He turned back to Orlando. “Wanna come?”

“Oh, no thanks,” said Orlando. “My days on the ice are long behind me. But you two enjoy yourselves.”

“Thanks,” said Jack. There was a wink, a flash of white teeth, and he was gone, his coat billowing in his wake. Maybe the billowing was the reason he wore the coat, Orlando reflected. Certainly the world “billowing” was enjoyable enough in itself to justify a little sartorial eccentricity. She had been just about to leave, when she noticed that Jack had left a note on the table.

She picked it up, and discovered that it consisted of a phone number, and a suggestion that the two of them should meet for coffee sometime in the next few decades. Orlando smiled as she pocketed the note and left the café.

She stepped out into the cold, bright sunshine.


	23. 23 February

The Doctor cleared his throat. There was a kind of nervous tingling running through his body- more so than usual. He tried very hard not to stammer.

“Charley,” he said.

“Hmmm?” said Charley, not looking up from her newspaper.

“Err…” the Doctor faltered, then pressed on: “Please could… Please could you pass me the salt?”

Charley looked up. “I beg your pardon?”

The Doctor swallowed. “You heard me, Charley Pollard. Please may I have the salt?”

Charley looked at the Doctor. He seemed perfectly serious- his dark eyes intently focused on her, filled with a mixture of hope and fear. Drops of sweat were just beginning to form on his forehead. He looked more alive than Charley had ever seen him. She handed him the cheap plastic container of salt, and he visibly relaxed, a little of the tension escaping his frame. He looked so relieved.

“Thank you,” he said.

The Doctor had told Charley that he worried sometimes. Quite a lot, actually. When she had asked him why, he had been unable to answer directly, but a look of profound weariness had come over him. He had told her that he was scared of himself. In his last life, he told her, he’d said things, done things, he would never have imagined himself capable of. He said that it was as if no-one was watching; the sense that he had to behave himself, toe the moral line, had all but evaporated, and he had felt himself succumbing to his darkest temptations; no-one was there to judge him, no-one was there to stop him. Indeed, the sense that he had better watch himself had started to wane even before his last body. He didn’t like what that feeling did to him. He was frightened of what he had been. And even more frightened of what he might become- he might expire, a pathetic shell of what was once a time lord, an empty, over-signified husk that even his closest friends would be unable to recognise. The Doctor wouldn’t be dead. But no-one would ever see him again.

Charley looked across at the Doctor. He looked so tired. But, as always with the Doctor, there was a sense of restless energy, buried beneath the frock coat and the long, wavy hair. 

“Doctor-” she said, not stopping to think about what she was about to do, because she knew a moment’s hesitation would bring the whole thing crashing down; “would you mind if, er-”

And then they were kissing.

Kissing the Doctor was like tasting the stars. He was adventure, excitement; a constant, irresistible force, always driving forward, and kissing him was like being swept up in it so fully that you were riding this wave of energy together, time and space melting together until each became indistinct, meaningless, cast aside as all of creation was collapsed into nothing but you and the Doctor, speeding onwards in an infinite, dazzling ecstasy. Together. Laughing. 

They broke apart. Trying their best not to gasp for air. Charley saw the fire in her own eyes reflected back in the Doctor’s. He was grinning from ear to ear. Charley seized his hand- she could feel his double heartbeat, still galloping, almost as fast as hers. She leaned forwards again, this time placing her head on his shoulder, feeling goosebumps rushing up the Doctor’s skin as her breath tickled the back of his neck. She paused, savouring the moment, and then uttered a single word:

“Run!”

And then they were off, sprinting out of the café, into the chilly air, the Doctor stumbling in Charley’s wake.


	24. 24 February

That bloody song was on the radio again. For the seventeenth time that day, I resisted a powerful urge to smash the damn thing.

At that point, a young man came up to the counter. He had a slight but sturdy build, and pleasant, open face. He was wearing what appeared to be cricket gear, and a stick of celery. My fruitcake alarm was going off at full volume.

“Excuse me,” he said.

“Yes sir,” I replied, trying to keep my music-based frustration out of my voice. “What can I get you?”

“Oh, nothing thank you, we’ve already been served.” He pointed to a table in a corner of the parlour. A dark-haired young woman waved at me over a half-eaten berry sundae. I vaguely wondered why she was wearing a leotard in February, when the young man drew my attention back to him.

“I was just wondering if you could tell me what this song you’re playing is.”  
I was a little astonished that he’d managed to avoid the damn thing for so long. “You must have heard it,” I said. “It’s ‘Everything is Awesome’.”

“No, never,” he replied. “Who is this singing it?”

I realised I did not actually know the answer to this question. I pulled out my phone, and typed the song name into Google. Thank you, complimentary WiFi.

“Err…says here it’s by Tegan and Sara.”

A strange smile spread across his face. “Is it really?” he said, more to himself than to me. “Well I never. Always thought they’d get on. I had no idea that either of them were so musically gifted.”

And with that, he drifted serenely back to his seat, leaving me more than a little baffled, and making a mental note to have a listen to some Tegan and Sara when I got home. 

I must see what all the fuss is about.


	25. 25 February

“You see Ace, the question is not what passes, but how it passes, who and what we encounter as we cross and re-cross our old paths like figure-skaters. Sometimes it looks as if my own life is running backwards, slipping from inevitable futures to a past unseen and unknowable. It’s like my history has a gravity of its own, and I need to pull at it, never stopping for a second, lest I collapse back into my own origins. Future and present and past, all flowing around the same fixed point, like a boulder dropped in a stream, mingling and influencing each other as they roll over one another…Sometimes I find myself doing things I never could have imagined myself doing, not yet, not for years, like echoes of some bizarre future resounding back and distorting my present. And sometimes I look and I find memories I couldn’t possibly have, and yet there they are, like new books on a familiar shelf… Still, suppose it makes sense, especially in a place like this. The universe never meets me in chronological order, so why should I remember it in that way? I find cause and effect tend to be somewhat…fractious concepts, especially with a lifestyle like mine. Best not to think too hard about how things add up. It’s so unimaginative. Why spend so much time chasing up discrepancies, when one could be out there manufacturing so many new ones! Anyway, things only ever make sense because we decide they do. It’s all relative.”

“Um…Professor?”

“Yes, Ace?”

“I just asked you to pass me the chocolate sauce.”

“What? Oh, right. Here you are.” The Doctor handed her the plastic carton, and Ace squeezed the runny brown stuff over her ice cream. She grinned at the Doctor. 

The Doctor smiled back. He took another sip of tea, and leaned back in his chair. He was a sentimental old fool really. He just tried to hide it by being as mysterious and clever-looking as possible. And even if Ace could see right through his act, well, that didn’t make it any less fun.


	26. 26 February

Once upon a time there will be a woman called the Doctor.

*

Penny was trying to do the crossword in the Monmouthshire Echo, a task she was performing with much swearing and correction, a hot cup of milky tea sitting on the table next to the paper. The Doctor was reading The Bone Clocks and occasionally sipping a cup of strong, black coffee. Penny had finally given the crossword up, and tossed the paper aside, when the Doctor, not looking up from her book, said:

“Mercurial”

“Sorry?”

“Fourteen-across, a nine-letter word meaning ‘sprightly’.”

Penny checked. The Doctor was exactly right.

“But how did you-”

The Doctor rolled her eyes. “Come on, Penny. The Time Lords invented crossword puzzles.”

“Really?”

“Of course we did!” The Doctor put down her book, and brushed a strand of dark hair out of her face. “They’re cryptic, time-consuming, and deal in the starkly black and white- you get exactly the answer the puzzle-maker was looking for, or you fail. Time Lords all over. I was never very good at them.”

“But you just gave me the correct answer.”

“Oh, I may have given you the correct answer that time,” said the Doctor, waving a hand dismissively, “but my answer probably won’t fit with the other words, or they’ll be the answer to a puzzle written back in 1977 and so can’t be re-used, or maybe your handwriting will just be too eccentric to fill out the boxes correctly. That’s why I don’t like crosswords. Nasty, petty things. They try and put ideas in boxes, fitting perfectly in with all the other ideas in all the other boxes. How boring can you get? Now this, on the other hand-”

The Doctor grabbed the newspaper off the table, and unfolded the front page. It was emblazoned with the headline “WHO IS THE ‘MONMOUTHSHIRE CLOWN’?’. There was a blurry photograph of someone dressed as a clown, standing stock-still on a street corner in the middle of the night. He was wearing a wide, manic, terrifying smile. Penny hadn’t noticed the headline in her dive for the puzzle pages.

Penny looked up at the Doctor.

“Is this the part where you say ‘the game is afoot!’ and we rush out of the café to start investigating?”

The Doctor grinned. “Don’t be vulgar,” she said. “We’re going to tip the waitress first.”


	27. 27 February

That last chase had been exhausting. The Doctor had brought Clara to Courtney’s for what she called “a bit of a breather”. It was enough facing the Daleks and the Cybermen on the same day. Going directly from that to Finnegans Wake with class 12B was insane.

The Doctor was at the counter, ordering, while Clara slumped in a chair. He came over, and passed Clara her double espresso. Clara took a grateful sip. Combined time travel and teaching was a career path requiring vast quantities of caffeine. The Doctor sat down opposite her. She could tell that he was tired too, but he was trying to keep up appearances for her sake. She smiled at him, and he smiled, tentatively, back. 

Clara noticed the Doctor’s hand lying on the table. It was hunched slightly, as if prepared to spring into action at a moment’s notice. She reached down, very gently, and put her hand over his. She gently brushed his thumb with her own. The skin was callused, craggy, worn and scraped from all that time spent hammering at the controls. But there was a warmth beneath it. She pulled her fingers slightly closer in, and raised her eyes to meet the Doctor’s. 

They were waiting for her, of course. Those intense grey eyes she knew so well. She saw them soften. She saw the corners of the Doctor’s mouth twitch. She could feel his agitation melting away, replaced with the same immense calm she felt, that she always felt, even when in mortal danger, when she had the Doctor by her side. Her constant companion, her plucky assistant. Her best friend.

They sat like that, quite still, for a long time. Enjoying the present. Enjoying their moment together.


	28. 28 February

There was a wheezing, groaning noise, as the battered old police box materialised on the corner of the street. A few quiet moments passed, and then the doors creaked open, and a young woman stepped out.

“Where are we this time, Grandfather?”

The Doctor was slower to emerge than his granddaughter, but he stepped through the doors a moment of two later, a tall, white-haired man, scowling and clutching his lapels in an attempt to maintain some dignity in the face of his utter cluelessness as to where they had landed.

“I don’t know, my dear. How do you expect me to tell where we are with the scanner malfunctioning, hmm? It’s like everything else on that blasted ship; completely unreliable!”

“Sorry, Grandfather.”

The Doctor softened. Susan had been through a lot in their escape.

“I’m sorry, Susan,” he said. “I’m just a little disorien- confused by the chase.”

“Me too.”

“I think what we need, my child, is somewhere to sit down and get our strength back.”  
“What about over there?” Susan pointed to a nearby café, just beginning to open in the early morning light, like a flower beginning to open its petals as the sun rose. 

“An excellent idea, Susan,” said the Doctor. “Lead the way.”

It really was a marvellous ice cream they served in this establishment. As the Doctor and Susan departed, heading back to their knackered old ship refreshed and ready to take on the universe again, the Doctor reflected that he really must come back here again. Like any great café, it satisfied you when you went in, and made you want to come back at the first opportunity. There was a sense of many different experiences still to be had within the confines of that seemingly narrow space. It had the air of a building that had seen heartbreak, laughter, peril, horror, adventure and excitement and really wild things. It was exactly the Doctor’s kind of place. The Doctor gazed fondly at image of the parlour displayed on the scanner, as the same wheezing and groaning noise filled the air, and the TARDIS faded away. One day, he decided, he would go back. He was right. 

The Doctor would be coming to Courtney’s Café and Ice Cream Parlour for the rest of his lives.

THE END 

(INSOFAR AS THERE CAN BE)


End file.
